


The Hawk

by LadyBrooke



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-24
Updated: 2013-06-24
Packaged: 2017-12-16 02:06:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/856535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyBrooke/pseuds/LadyBrooke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He can't scream, but the hawk does it for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hawk

**Author's Note:**

> Written for B2MeB, Day 1, I18 Sons of Feanor – Maglor the Mighty; Landscape - hill; Life Events – Old Age; Beasts - hawk

He was glad that nobody could see him now. Here he was, one of the oldest elves in Middle-earth, and he had nothing to show for it other than his birds. Even if he loved his birds, and they seemed to care for him as well, there was nothing else left. He no longer sang, he had no wish for it anymore. After his brothers were dead, and he had nothing to fight for, he had lost his place. What was a warrior without a war, and a singer without a muse?

For this reason, he had only birds that didn't sound musical. His favorite was the hawk. The way it screamed echoed the sounds he wished he could make still, but his voice was long gone, it had gone away when he quit singing. And so he let the hawk scream for him, and he knew that it was screaming because it was hungry. But it was so easy to forget that, and allow himself to believe that it was because the hawk really did understand him.

So each night he stood on top of the hill, watching for the hawk. And each night it came screaming back to him, hungry. He would watch it as it caught the food it needed, before settling in for the night, reminding him of soldiers after a day's battle. Until one night, the hawk no longer returned. He searched until he found it, at the bottom of the hill, stiff and frozen. Wrapping it in a cloth, he carried it to the top of the hill and placed it between two branches of the tree.

And then it was bubbling out of him, and he was screaming. His voice was hoarse and scratchy, but he was screaming. He kept screaming and screaming and screaming until his voice grew higher and higher and higher, piercing the night. The night grew colder as he screamed, but he had no cares. When he finally quit screaming, he felt so old – surely elves weren't supposed to feel like this? But the cold was setting into his bones, just like it had the poor hawk, and it was so tempting to just lie down and sleep like the hawk was.

The snow came that night, and the next, and for many days after that. It would be several weeks before anybody crossed through the area again. And they would look at each other, and wonder at the curious sight before them and shake their heads. But others would look at the elf, and wonder what battle had finally brought such a warrior to his death?

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes, the hardest battle that one can fight is against oneself. I firmly believe that Maglor was one of, if not the, strongest of his brothers in willpower and determination. It takes massive courage, I think, to live with the types of things that Maglor saw in the first age, and keep both your sanity and at least part of your pride.
> 
> I'm not sure how well I did at conveying it in the story, but in the end, Maglor's worst enemy (and the only one mighty enough to kill him) was himself and the fact that he had lived so long.


End file.
